Like I Can
by cymfonies
Summary: 30 Theme Hoperai Challenge.
1. (70) Shiver

**(70) - Shiver**

Hope does not like being interrupted.

What a way to start a fic. I apologize to anyone who expected something fluffy. I was interested in writing more of a yandere!Hope, and this is what popped up in my head at one in the morning.

There'll be many more one-shots to follow. And certainly...happier ones, too. In the meantime, hope you enjoy! And as always, reviews are much appreciated.

**Trigger warning **for blood and death.

* * *

There are no exceptions, he thinks, and he overlooks the minimal weight attempting to pile onto his shoulders for now, bearing with the guilt in exchange for a spare, fleeting moment of peace and quiet.

_(hush hush hush)_

He adjusts the cloth wrapped tight around her head, making sure to occasionally tweak the fabric so it does not fold in on itself. Clumps of pink hair protrude or form loops and curvatures in a number of directions above the handkerchief, and Hope takes a moment to marvel at the remaining sheen in her rosy locks. Hot or cold, humid or dry, her perfection is drawn straight and true through every wisp and curl of hair, and he has withheld his delight in observing her boundless beauty on more than one occasion.

"It's okay, Light," he says, softly, and the candied warmth in Hope's voice infers none to the coppery taste of his tongue or the murky brown staining the tiles.

_(everywhere floor blood pipes blade everywhere)_

He sets his hands on Lightning's shoulders, gently. She stiffens, chest heaving with deep, silent breaths while he steps forward and navigates, carefully, over the bulky forms strewn across the floor. Some lie face down—others watch the ceiling fan spin in their rest, left with a bout of surprise etched permanently into their countenance in their final breath.

He lowers himself, leaning forward on one knee, and rests a hand on a bare foot bound tight to the leg of the chair. His eyes narrow. The welts and lacerations on her ankles are decorated with unsightly hues alternating between yellow and purple.

The cuts have dried. They have not gone unnoticed.

"Nod if I tug on anything, or if something hurts, okay?" Lightning suppresses an uncharacteristic whimper.

When he removes the blindfold, her eyes are wide, so very wide. He is almost thankful that he has kept the gag on, because it takes more than a single graze of her cheek to keep her from crying out in shock.

"Shhhh, shh, shh," he whispers. "It's okay. They're gone now. I took care of them, there's no one around to hurt you anymore."

_(so blue so blue blue electric blue sky eyes blue on me eyes on me on eyes on me)_

"I'm going to keep the gag on for a little longer, okay? I just want you to calm down for now, so you won't raise your voice. If you get loud, I won't be able to clean this up in time." He turns, gesturing to the bodies sprawled around them

_(hurt don't hurt her don't forgive no mistakes forgive hurt hurt don't)_

and Lightning does not remain unflinching, unwavering in her seat as he brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. His fingers come to rest below her chin, careful to keep his hands at bay from what is left of her tattered tank top

_(torn torn torn)_

and the missing button on her denim shorts.

"I'll get you out of here, Light. Don't worry. It'll be okay."

Cold sweat beads her forehead, and Hope searches his pockets, retrieving a spare handkerchief somewhat stained. The grime and blood on his hands have already colored dark splotches on the cloth, but when he dabs at her brow, she is strangely silent.

"Please understand, Light."

His fingers work the knot behind her head, slowly pulling the fabric from her mouth.

_(listen look listen listen look listen look at me me look at me)_

"Understand that when I say I did this for you, it was all to protect you."

When she quivers, he presses a kiss to her temple, leaning forward until they are nose-to-nose, until his breath brushes against her lips, and she tastes the blood on his skin.

Hope smiles.


	2. (73) Green

**(73) Green**

_"I don't know him."_

Lightning's POV, sort of a sequel to (70) Shiver.

**Trigger warning** for blood and death.

* * *

I don't know him.

I did. I don't. Those aren't _his_ eyes. What happened to _him_? Where is _he_? I could stare at the doorway, avoid this man's eyes while I wait for the real one to come. To come running, to squeeze me to death, and watch his skin drain of color when he sees the bodies. Bodies everywhere.

That's how anyone would react. That's _normal_.

I keep glancing past this man's shoulder, at the door. Where is he? Where is Hope? Help me. I can't do it myself. Fang, Snow, help me, anybody.

Hope.

I can't see him anymore. My blindfold's been taken off, but I still don't know where he is.

He tells me they're gone. He killed them. All of them. His eyes—I can't read them. They're dark, focused; alert. As if they weren't before, as though they were stuck in a trance, half-asleep. As if _now_ is the truth. This killer is the real one.

I wish I could speak. A part of me wants to gnaw through the gag just so I can, but what would I say? I don't know this man. He and Hope and two different people. He's not Hope. He can't be.

I try and twist my wrists out of my restraints, slowly, carefully. Then he opens his mouth.

"I'll get you out of here, Light. Don't worry. It'll be okay."

_Light. _

No, no, no. No. Don't call me that. He can't. He didn't. No. Where is Hope? I need him, I need to see him. Don't look at me, don't look at me. Where is he? Where is he? Where—

"Please understand, Light."

My eyes snap back to the killer. This stranger, this man who looks so much like _him. _I shut my eyes, shake my head, and look back up.

His eyes are green.

I think I'm going to vomit. No, his eyes aren't dark at all. What on earth was I thinking? They're no different than they were days ago, when I last saw him. They're green, just like his mothers' eyes. Green, like the scarf he would always wear when he was younger; green, like the knotted necktie I'd fixed just before Serah's wedding; green, like the faded highlighter coloring parts of his files from work; green, the color I'd always see right before he'd kiss me each morning.

I don't look at the door. There's no need. He's not coming. In fact, he's already here.

When he undoes the gag, his fingers are gentle, soft. When he holds me, I feel his warmth, surging through me like a tidal wave. When he kisses me, I see green.

When I taste the blood, nothing is different. Hope smiles, and his fingers intertwine with mine.


End file.
